


i like my coffee how i like my men

by incendia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M, because this fandom could use more coffee shop au's, isaac is the greek god of beautiful smiles and dirty innuendoes, scott is an adorable hot mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 19:22:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incendia/pseuds/incendia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Scott, huh?” Scott’s pretty sure he’s never heard his voice sound so perfect. Silken and smooth and rolling of the guy’s tongue like seduction even though that’s probably just his normal conversational tone. </p><p>“Yep. Although you know my name but I don’t know yours. That seems a little unfair, don’t you think?” Glancing up, the flirtatious look from beneath his lashes is entirely deliberate.</p><p>“How about this, I’ll tell you my name, but only if you promise to scream it later in bed.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	i like my coffee how i like my men

Scott almost has a heart attack when he strides in through the entrance of the shop.

A full-blown, blood vessel-bursting, asphyxiating heart attack.

The black chalkboard stretching across the wall behind the counter that’s usually reserved for daily specials and signature grinds as well as cute messages and doodles scrawled by the employees in their spare time now has a few lines of big, capital white letters scrawled out on it. 

**TODAY YOUR BARISTA IS:**

  1. _Hella fucking gay._
  2. _Desperately single._



**FOR YOUR DRINK TODAY I RECOMMEND:**

_You give me your number._  

And below that is a stick figure drawing rendered in the same stark white chalk dust with pointy edges for hair and a sun sticking out from behind its head that presumably, is meant to be _him._ It’s probably supposed to be flattering but Scott can’t help but be reminded of the laughing baby on that one show with the giant talking dinosaur-aliens and that’s enough to make him immediately regret coming into work.

The shit-eating grin he gets from Stiles a second later is all he needs to realise who’s responsible because wow, _yeah,_ of course his best friend would jump at the chance to pimp him out to a whole coffee shop full of invested patrons and new customers.

Yeah, Scott’s definitely going to kill him. 

“So,” he begins, smile still innocuous when he saunters up to the counter and tries not to scowl at the smirk Stiles has plastered to his face now, “What’s up with the…” He gestures vaguely in the direction of the advertisement with a wave of his hand that’s meant to encompass the entire blackboard 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Stiles replies, leaning over the counter to adjust one of the signs displaying their specialty milkshakes. “It’s the specials board, Scotty, for – you know – displaying our special of the day.”

Oh, okay, so he’s going to play it subtle now is he? Stiles always means serious business when he’s even attempting subtlety, because Scott’s best friend is a lot of things, but _subtle_ is not and never will be one of them. A mastermind, maybe, a Machiavellian super genius secretly engineered by Russian spies, perhaps – but _subtle_ …?

“Seriously, Stiles. What are you doing and what is that… what is that _thing_ doing up there? You know my shift is in three minutes, right? Also, I’m not even _gay._ ”

“Sure, buddy. Of course I do, I’ve got your schedule memorised and everything. And _yes,_ dude, you are, denial is cute on you but it only goes so far. Still have no idea what you’re talking about though.” It’s never something that Scott’s ever really put a label on and _sure,_ there’ve been the few odd hook-ups and drunken adventures but he’s not _actually_ gay. He’s at least… fifty five per cent bi. Right? Were there even rules for this kind of thing and since when was Stiles the penultimate guru of sexuality? The guy’s gaydar was _abysmal,_ (but to be fair, even _he_ had known Danny Mehealani was gay and that was before they’d caught him making out with Jackson that one time. Scott still remembered the gaping hole in his wallet from losing that hundred-dollar bet) and he still dressed like a teenage boy living out of his father’s house. 

But… fine. So maybe it isn’t completely wrong to call him gay, per se. But _hella fucking_ gay? Stiles really needs to spend less time watching America’s Next Top Model. Or that one with the drag queens and the race cars.

The sudden crash of metal on wood makes Scott glance up with a twitch of his eyes. Stiles has moved onto flicking knobs and pressing switches on the coffee machine now and that’s when Scott steps in with a small growl as he fixes Stiles with a withering look.

“ _Stiles._ You don’t even work here. Now stop pressing random buttons before you make something explode and I lose my job. You know I’m not supposed to talk to you during work.” Stiles sniffs but steps back with his palms raised in surrender and saunters around the corner with an extravagant bow and gestures for Scott to take his place, the smirk appearing on his features downright _filthy._

“Alright, alright, I’m leaving. But do have fun, and don’t forget to smile extra adorably so all the hot new customers will tip you _extra_ big.” The wink Stiles shoots him makes Scott want to slam his head against the counter if only to make him shut up but he settles for an eye roll and an exasperated smile.

“Not if Lydia fires me first for what you wrote on the chalkboard.” 

“What, you mean your boss, Little Miss So-Perfect-It-Hurts-To-Look-At-Her Lydia Martin? She wouldn’t fire you, your cute little face is what brings in half the customers here. That and her god-given good looks, man, did you _see_ what she was— “

A throat clears behind Stiles, polite, soft, but loud enough to be heard as Stiles stiffens and whirls around with comedic speed to face the stranger, fearful that it might be the redheaded firecracker of a boss herself. As for Scott, well he could probably kiss the stranger for interrupting Stiles before he could continue on one of his long-winded, never-ending Lydia Martin rants. He’s heard enough of those for several lifetimes and could probably quote Stiles word for word on what he thinks of Lydia’s ‘perfect strawberry blonde, _strawberry blonde okay not red, they’re more like orange with a tinge of pink like the sun setting across the horizon at a tropical beach,_ hair’.

The minor distraction has made him lose track of the fact that Stiles has fallen utterly silent, a rarity for him, and something that should have raised alarm bells the second Scott sensed it. But he hasn’t, and when he glances up, that’s basically it for heart attack number two for the morning and honestly, why bother dragging himself out of bed if people are going to attempt to give him a coronary before ten and – _oh._ Oh. _That’s_ why.

That being him, and him being the absolutely stunningly breathtaking specimen of a man that’s just walked in through the door and politely excused himself for interrupting him and Stiles. No, no, not a man, a _god._ A real life Greek god with golden-brown curls falling into eyes that are cerulean and azure and the colour of the sky reflecting off the ocean that looks like he’s just taken a casual walk down from Olympus and decided to mingle amongst mere mortals for the day. One who seems to be growing increasingly amused by the silence that’s settled across the dynamic duo judging by the beautiful, wonderful quirk to his lips that’s almost a smirk and almost a smile and Jesus Christ Scott could stare at those lips forever. 

And then it’s Stiles turn to clear his throat and Scott nearly jumps at the jab to the ribs he’d be giving him right now if they’d been standing right next to each other. The sound is enough to make Scott snap out of his temporary Greek god-induced haze with an instantaneous smile. 

“Um, hey – hi. Hi. Sorry about that, my friend was just leaving and you…” _are so freaking gorgeous this might as well be a dream, or a hallucination, you know the kind with tiny winged angels?_ “You’re here for coffee. Right. Again, so sorry.” 

What Scott would really like to do is ask the man if reducing people to puddles of stammering, stuttering messes is a usual occurrence or is it just him? Please let it not just be him. The guy’s too good-looking to even be walking around on the street with a face like that. He needs warning signs plastered ten feet around him, and probably a catwalk to go beneath his ridiculously long legs. 

The look that passes between him and Stiles takes all of a millisecond, but by now they’ve perfected near telepathic communication, only without the actual talking into each other’s brains part, but Scott knows Stiles can tell exactly what’s going through his mind. Except hopefully not all of it, and especially not the dirtier side his thoughts are wandering towards.

Stiles flicks a look between him and the stranger, a lightning bolt of mischief that makes Scott nauseous to even witness, before he nods firmly, tucking his hands into his pockets and jerks his head towards the door. “Right, well. That’s me. Don’t forget movie night tonight but I’ll understand if you can’t make it if you find something better to do. Seriously man, I mean it, if something suddenly comes up or you’ve got a _thing,_ or you know, then it’s – ” 

“ _Stiles!_ ” Oh my god. Oh my god, he’s pretty sure his face is burning hot enough that the scarlet flush of embarrassment is bright enough to be seen even on his usually tanned complexion. 

“I’m going, I’m going. You have a nice day, okay. And remember what I said about Tall, Dark and Handsome guys being the perfect kind of guys in the world? Yeah, screw that because Tall, Pale and Golden haired is totally ––” 

“Stiles, if you don’t leave right now ––”

“Hasta la vista, hombre. Spare condom tucked into your wallet! Have fun!” Stiles’ face is bright with glee as he takes a backwards step, ensuring he’s out of sight of the stupidly hot stranger’s peripheral vision before he shoots Scott a thumbs up with both hands. He bites down on his lower lip with an obscene, exaggerated wink of encouragement, before turning, at last, to leave. 

Yep. Scott is _definitely_ going to murder his best friend. As in immediately after he serves this customer and successfully manages not to turn into a puddle of Scott at his feet.

“I am… I am _so_ sorry about that – this doesn’t… this doesn’t usually happen, I swear,” Scott mutters under his breath, raking a hand nervously through his hair and hoping to whatever deity up there is listening that the guy doesn’t think he’s a complete and total freak. 

But then he goes along and does the absolute worse thing in the world other than falling silent and glancing at Scott like he’s fifty shades of weird and _chuckles._ Goddamn _chuckles_ and it’s like a symphony of bells and harps playing a single note at the same time and fuck, fuck Scott is so screwed.

“It’s fine. I thought he was actually kind of charming. I take it you two are close friends?” His voice is even worse, to be honest, but the more surprising thing is that he actually sounds sincere, as if he actually _wants_ to hear about the legendary and lifelong tale of Scott’s and Stiles’ friendship.

“Yeah, he’s my best friend. Although sometimes I wish he wasn’t so I could kill him without any residual guilt,” Scott supplies without missing a beat despite still in the midst of recovering from the heart palpitations just hearing the guy laughing has given him. Mr Greek God’s smile only widens as he takes a few steps closer, glancing up at the board and _shit._ Scott cringes as he realises what’s still up there.

“I’m kind of curious to know what today’s specials are. Think you could help me out here?”

Scott’s heart takes a reckless leap and he stiffens.

“Um, _what_?”

“Today’s specials. I’ve actually been here once or twice but the message board usually says something different.” Oh, _oh god,_ now Scott looks like a complete and utter idiot. His brain is still cluttered with the echoes of Stiles’ words and it takes a resolved shake to empty it and nod his understanding.

Even then, it takes a few moments of rebooting before he finally catches on and stumbles to answer the question. “Triple chocolate mochachinos with a hint of cinnamon." Yeah, don't ask. Lydia has an interesting take on what constitutes as ' _coffee_ '. "It sounds... strange but the coffee we use in it is brand new, free trade and imported from Mexico.” 

The customer lifts a single, glorious eyebrow. “Really? I love Mexican. I usually prefer my coffee black but I could go for one of those.” 

“Coming right up.” Scott shoots him a quick smile before grabbing one of the empty coffee cups and setting about making the order. This, he can do. This is the part he’s good at. Talking and conversing with fallen Greek gods or runway models that lost their way while searching for the photo shoot they’re supposed to be at right now? Not so much. The coffee machine makes the comfortable, familiar whirring sound as Scott measures out the milk into the cup. 

He almost jumps when he hears the guy speak up again. “Scott, huh?” Scott’s pretty sure he’s never heard his voice sound so perfect. Silken and smooth and rolling of the guy’s tongue like seduction even though that’s probably just his normal conversational tone. 

“Yep. Although you know my name but I don’t know yours. That seems a little unfair, don’t you think?” Glancing up, the flirtatious look from beneath his lashes is entirely deliberate. 

“How about this, I’ll tell you my name, but only if you promise to scream it later in bed.”

This time his face twists in visible shock, the coffee cup clutched in his fingers nearly sent flying and spilling boiling hot mochachino everywhere and all over himself. But, _god,_ there is that laughter again, and Scott thinks he’d probably suffer through almost pouring hot coffee on himself over and over if he could just hear that laugh again. 

“Relax, I’m just kidding.” Scott’s gaydar hasn’t worked properly ever since he tried to convince Stiles Danny Mehealani was one hundred and fifty per cent straight but he is _definitely_ being flirted with… right? There’s no way straight guys go around making casual propositions like that, even as jokes, and he doesn’t think Mr Perfect Hair and Perfect Smile could be that cruel. 

He’d really love to find out if that seriously _was_ a joke or not but there’s actually been a small line forming behind the stranger and he doesn’t want any of the frustrations of coffee-deprived businesspeople hurled at him for taking so long. It’s just his luck that one of the aforementioned customers just happens to be his favourite regular Finstock, the angry, shouting, but oddly endearing, sports commentator that stops by every morning for his cup of steaming hot long black. He’s gesturing for him to _hurry the fuck up,_ a mix of fury and bewilderment at the hold-up this certain customer’s presence has been causing.

Stifling an inwards sigh, Scott finishes off the coffee with a swirl from the other pouring out the milk, absent-mindedly forming the curly shape of a heart right in the centre of the hazel-tinted foam. “Here we go,” he says, smiling at the man as he hands it to him. “Hope you have a great day. Oh, and enjoy the coffee!”

“Thanks, Scott.” The smile he receives in return is actually, literally breathtaking and Scott silently thanks Stiles for reminding him to shove his inhaler into his back pocket. He doesn't actually need the thing anymore, but in case of emergency –– which this certainly might be if his heart wants to beat any freaking faster. “Oh, and before I go – ” Scott pauses, tilting his head inquisitively with raised brows. The guy has slipped his hand into his pocket, pulling out a pen and the ripped edge of a receipt. _Shit,_ the guy is giving him his _number_? 

Holy _cr_ –– he really is, Scott realises as he watches on in stunned silence. And then the piece of paper is being slid across the table towards him, long, slender fingers withdrawing as the man grins at him.

“You have a nice day too, Scott.” Well, he definitely is now thanks to a certain curly-haired god walking into the coffee shop and _handing him his freaking number._ He doesn’t even fully register that he's staring after the guy’s back as he leaves, tracing the lines of his broad shoulders in that black pea coat and wondering what kind of glorious muscles could be hiding beneath it.

“ _McCall._ McCall, stop staring at his ass and serve me my goddamn coffee!” Scott’s spine straightens like he’s been electrocuted.

“Uh, yeah, yeah sorry, sorry. One long black, grande.” He jumps into a flurry of movement, desperately attempting to ignore how obviously he’s been caught out staring, obsessing, and basically _lusting_ after a complete and total stranger. A stranger that he now has the number of… With a noise of victory, his hand snatches at the small jagged receipt stub and shoves it into his pocket for later.

“Seriously, McCall, if you were staring any harder your eyeballs would have fallen right out of their sockets,” Finstock barks. It’s kind of creepy how the man knows his last name at all but Scott doesn’t question it. 

“–– And don’t even _think_ about asking for my number. Not happening. _Ever._ ” Scott glances up with an expression of absolute horror before dissolving into a fit of laughter, sliding over the cup of coffee across the counter.

“Relax, Finstock. I’m pretty sure I’ve got the only number I need today. I seriously can’t believe it’s even working.”

“Of course it is, have you _seen_ yourself, kid? I’ve never seen you look more sickeningly adorable and puppylike. Now if you don’t mind me I’m going go throw up somewhere before your gigantic poodle eyes start infecting me with stupidity.” Finstock toasts him swiftly with the cup before spinning on his heel and power-walking right out of the shop.

… Well. Scott’s not one to linger on things, so he shrugs and decides to save that strange piece of flattery for later. 

 

. . . . .

 

Several hours, twenty-three frantic texts from Stiles and a whopping _thirty-nine_ pieces of paper containing the numbers of a ridiculous hoard of attractive men both young, old and otherwise ageless later and Scott’s collapsed at an empty table near the last few minutes of his shift.

It’s almost eight and the light is dimming already with the early sunset of summer and Scott’s starving, mildly exhausted and he really doesn’t think he’s going to be up for Stiles’ movie marathon tonight.

No doubt he’s going to want to hear all about the thirty-nine numbers and the potential candidates for the position of Scott’s new boyfriend all night long and it’s beginning to be very doubtful that he’s going to last that long without taking them, prank-calling them all up and setting up technically blind first dates which Scott will then have to politely decline and apologise for whatever lewd innuendoes Stiles has made in the process.

They’re an odd collection of torn-off ticket stubs and business cards, ripped edges of paper and napkins stacked in a small pile on top of the table, but the one that’s been hidden in his pocket the entire time Scott has completely forgotten about until just now as he slips his hand into the wrong pocket in search of his phone to check the time. 

The feeling of paper makes him frown at first before he perks up, face brightening like the horizon of sunlight across the sky and he slips it out of his pocket with a look that’s delight and wonder and barely restrained excitement. His eyes are waiting to drink in the words hungrily, memorise each by heart and string them along in his mind never to be forgotten, except… there are no numbers.

_Scott,_

_I’m holding you to that promise._

_Isaac._

What… what the _hell_ is that supposed to mean?? He’s going to make him scream his name in bed –– Isaac, which by the way is somehow both perfectly fitting and maddeningly frustrating –– but he won’t even give him his number? Scott doesn’t know whether that’s a compliment or an insult.

Shaking his head, he tucks the slip of paper back into his pocket, and moves to stand up when suddenly there’s a light tap on his shoulder.

“You read my note.”

Scott yelps in startled surprise and for the love of god would people please stop scaring him half to death today. Three strikes and you’re out, that’s usually the deal. Instead, all he does is turn towards the owner of the voice, trying as best as he can to tamper the wonder that's threatening to steal across his face.

“I… um, yeah. I didn’t have time to until just now. How did you… how did you know I’d still be here?”

“Well, I figured if I waited til the end of your shift I’d have better luck talking to you without interruptions.” The easy smile that curves at his lips would be enough to make any lesser man melt. But Scott McCall does not _melt._ He’s been hit on by roughly thirty-nine men today and he can play this game as well as any other. (If he sighs, just a little, like a lovesick schoolgirl in his mind, well, no one else needs to know.)

“… I see. So, did you show up again just to trade a few handsome smiles with me or are you actually planning on giving me your number anytime soon? 

“But if _you_ had my number how would I be able to call you to ask you out to dinner?”

Wait… _what?_ Oh my god, he’s been asked _out?_ The beautiful human being standing before him with his gorgeous eyes and perfect freaking smile is asking _him_ out?

“Well, I don’t… uh… I sort of had plans tonight. With my best friend, Stiles, the guy you met earlier, I don’t know if I can just… _bail_ on him.” Sad but true, and Stiles has had enough lame excuses and disappointment from him when it comes to choosing his love life over their friendship enough times to deem Scott a suitably shitty friend. Luckily he’s made up for all of that. Mostly with multiple sci-fi movie marathons (Trek Wars, or something?? Or were those two separate things now? Who even knows… They both had aliens and girls in skin-tight uniforms anyway) and ‘subtle hints’ about when Lydia was going to be at the coffee shop so Stiles could ever so coincidentally show up and visit his best friend at work.

Scott doesn’t want to be the kind of best friend that screws over their bromance again just for a pretty face. Even it _was_ an extremely pretty face. And pretty hair. And pretty eyes and pretty – well damn, pretty _everything._ The guy – _Isaac_ – is ridiculously hot, and never in Scott’s wildest dreams could he have hallucinated such a perfect-looking man but… he can’t. Bros before hoes and all that. (Seriously, they had to invent a new slogan for guys who dated girls _and_ guys.)

“I’m sorry. I can’t. Not tonight anyway, I… I promised him first.”

“Promised you’d scream his name in bed or promised you’d hang out with him tonight?” Isaac asks without hesitation, lifting a delicate eyebrow at him. Scott chokes on nothing but air, his cheeks flushing with heat at the insinuation.

“Anyway,” Isaac says before he can stutter out a reply to save himself from that awful Freudian slip, “that’s a shame, but hey, I get it. I was actually kind of busy tonight in the first place.”

 _Way to rub it in, Isaac._ No need to remind Scott what once in a lifetime, never-going-to happen-again chance he’s just missed out on.

“Yeah, see, here’s the thing. I walked into a coffee shop I’d been to only once or twice this morning and met the cutest barista you’ve ever seen. We flirted a little and then he proceeded to make me the most amazing cup of coffee so I decided to leave him a note because, well, who am I to say no the special of the day?” A smirk graces his lips, glancing down and then up again to peer up at Scott through his long, long eyelashes as his voice lowers an octave and turns to velvet instead of just silk. 

“When a _hella fucking gay_ guy draws a love heart in your coffee you don’t just say _no._ ” Fuck, fuck, Scott is so fucking screwed, Stiles be damned, how can _he_ say no to _that_?

“… So I made plans to see him later that day when he’d finished his shift to invite him out to dinner. But he’s got this thing with a friend, so now I’m not so sure…” 

“It’s – it’s cool! I can reschedule. I can definitely one hundred per cent reschedule. Let me just… let me just text my friend and apologise first.” He’s already scrambling for his phone, pulling it out of his pocket, fingers poised to type in his lengthy and rambling apology letter when he realises he’s had a dozen or so new texts waiting in his inbox for some time now. 

8:01:46 PM **Stiles:** dude. dUDE.

8:01:48 PM **Stiles:** I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO SAY I’M SO HAPPY FOR YOU RIGHT NOW.

8:05:23 PM  **Stiles:** actually i'm so happy for ME right now. 

8:07:17 PM  **Stiles:** no more long, tiring nights of watching you mope about allison and deny your homosexuality

8:09:29 PM  **Stiles:** NEWSFLASH BRO SHE WAS TWO YEARS AGO.

8:09:31 PM **Stiles:** ALSO DANNY CALLED AND HE WANTS HIS LUBE BACK DON'T THINK I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'VE BEEN HIDING.

8:10:35 PM **Stiles:** seriously. i fully expect to be thanked in your wedding vows and at the christenings of your freakishly beautiful and genetically blessed children.

8:10:59 PM **Stiles:** also your anniversaries.

8:35:12 PM **Stiles:** and don’t worry about tonight man. you go out and have fun. you go out and enjoy that glorious piece of renaissance art.

8:37:01 PM  **Stiles:** ass. i meant ass if that wasn't clear. 

Well, that solves that problem.

The relief on his face is obvious when he lets out a laugh. "I wonder if that cute barista's got time on his hands now that he's cancelled on his friend..."

"How does dinner sound?" Isaac's smile really is like art, Scott thinks, but even that would be an injustice. 

"Sounds perfect." 

 

. . . . .

 

Later, after their date, Scott really does get Isaac's number. Along with a goodnight kiss. One that still tastes like the hint of caramel in Isaac's special of the day. 

"Do  _all_ baristas taste like coffee when the kiss or is it just you?" Isaac asks after a moment, leaning back with his hands still wrapped around Scott's hips.

Scott snorts, arching an eyebrow at the taller man, resisting the urge to glare but he's too busy being distracted by the way the tip of Isaac's tongue traces the outer edges of his lips. Gorgeous, kiss-swollen lips quirked in that perpetual smirk of his. "I don't know, Isaac, do _you_ always taste like triple chocolate mochachinos?"

"I did tell you that's not what I usually drink, right?" Right, right. In between flirting so outrageously it was ridiculous anyone in the coffee shop was served at all this morning. 

"Yeah, yeah, Mr. Hardcore Long Black," Scott drawls, leaning in to press a kiss against the corner of Isaac's jaw where it meets his neck, breathing in the smell of his cologne. 

"What can I say, Scott... I like my coffee how I like my men: strong and black." Pulling back with a disgruntled look, Scott hovers where he is with a flicker of mock discontent.

"Don't pout," Isaac murmurs, closing the small distance between them to nose against Scott's cheekbone, a hand lifting to place against the side of his cheek, thumb brushing across Scott's lips, "I'm trying to resist the urge to kiss you breathless as it is."

"Call me adorable and I'll punch you."

"You  _are_ adorable. Why do you think your coffee shop really attracts so much business, Scott? I assure you it isn't the mochachinos, as nice as the one you made me was."

Scott huffs, biting down on his lip to keep himself from scowling up at Isaac and his teasing smile. "I like to think it's because I'm an excellent barista, actually." It's probably both, if he's being honest. There's a reason Lydia's always so keen to give him all the best working hours to keep him happy. "But I'm also amazing in bed," he adds for good measure, "... not that you can tell that from a single cup of coffee."

"I can," Isaac replies, naturally, his hand tilting Scott's face back and licking obscenely across Scott's lower lip and causing him to part his lips with a soft hitch of his breath. Isaac takes it as an opportunity, licking deeper into Scott's mouth and Scott lets him, still eager to savour the taste of him and memorise the feeling of Isaac's tongue stroking across his own.

A noise in the back of his throat as Isaac curls his tongue around his sets something off in him as he slams Isaac back against the door of his apartment, kissing him hard and hungry to burn the aftertaste of him into his mouth with the lingering sweetness beneath the bitter. His thigh shifts in between Isaac's legs that fall open for him, a delirious whine, half abandoned already, falling from his lips. It's a beautiful, wonderful sound, one that Scott plans to draw from him over and over until he's teetering on the edge of pleasure and oblivion. 

"By the time we're done, you're the one who's going to be screaming  _my_  name," Scott whispers as they stumble in through the door. 

 

. . . . .

 

The best thing about having sex with someone who makes coffee for a living, Isaac decides, is that they can make it for you anytime anywhere. In the glow of after-sex euphoria, Scott brings them both steaming hot mugs of coffee before sliding back into bed beside him. 

“Oh," Isaac says after a few lengthy sips and a long, drawn-out moan of pleasure at the taste for Scott's benefit, "You wouldn’t believe who I ran into outside the coffee shop."

Scott pauses, fingers stilling where they'd been sifting through Isaac's curls moments earlier. "Hm? Who did you run into?"

"Stiles. He told me that in exchange for making sure you didn't call any of the other numbers he'd tell me what time you got off at to pick you up for dinner."

"I don't know, Isaac. I think you got the raw end of the deal. Didn't you know forty's always been my lucky number?"

"Mine, too. I would have been  _heartbroken_ if you'd picked any of the thirty-nine others." 

"Jealousy is a ridiculously good look on you. Then again, I'm sure anything would be. Me, especially."

Isaac laughs, hand gliding lower down Scott's torso. It's his turn to keep up his end of the promise.

 

. . . . .

 

Scott's phone is turned off for the rest of the day, Isaac's number saved safely inside with a bunch of new texts.

1:41:50 AM **Stiles:** [attachment included ––– scottandisaacfuckinginatree.jpg] 

(Scott will open the attachment later to find a picture of a cake with the words ‘CONGRATS ON THE SEX (FINALLY)’ written on it in loopy pink icing with a disturbing image of two stick figures entangled in what is presumably a stick figure mating position.)

1:52:23 AM  **Stiles:** hurray you've finally found someone as adorably sickeningly romantic as you are.

1:52:47 AM  **Stiles:** can you believe the guy seriously chased me down to ask when you were going to get off work??

1:53:18 AM  **Stiles:** i almost threw up. i almost physically regurgitated last night's dinner just thinking about you two. 

2:28:50 AM  **Stiles:** say hi to loverboy for me aka the future mr. mcall-lahey.

 

**Author's Note:**

> so... this officially marks my first foray into the teen wolf fandom and any fanfiction at large. [ throws confetti ]
> 
> i've been itching to write scisaac for a while now, because as one of my biggest otp's i've got plot bunnies everywhere that are just multiplying at the pace of... well rabbits mating. so this won't be the last you'll see of me. 
> 
> props if you get the little canon references i littered throughout, by the way. and apologies for the artistic licence taken with the art of coffee-making (which by the way i know nothing of) and the probably outrageous oocness. 
> 
> let me know what you think of it. feedback would be absolutely appreciated.
> 
> [ EDITED 23/09 - i only just realised how many atrocious mistakes i'd made until now because i usually hate rereading things i've written. big mistake if you actually want to publish your fics but hopefully the entire thing flows a little better now. sorry for assaulting all of your eyes with my poor grammar! ]


End file.
